


LotR Ficlets

by ancient illwynd (illwynd)



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-09-27
Updated: 2006-09-27
Packaged: 2018-09-12 13:22:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 14,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9073759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illwynd/pseuds/ancient%20illwynd
Summary: A collection of Lotr ficlets.





	1. Truce

**Author's Note:**

> Just transferring these from LJ for archiving. Nothing new here!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by, and in honor of, the Christmas truce of 1914

  
Yule, 3018. Ithilien.  
  
He wished they had not needed to pass this way. Several days before, as they crossed into Gondor, their company had been ambushed. Both sides had taken losses, but he and most of his company had escaped to continue their journey. Since then, his days had been longer and more anxious than ever as they tramped across this strange land towards Mordor’s gates. He had watched the shadows for piercing grey eyes of the tall pale men from stories and warnings that were told in his land. They were cruel and wicked, the tales said, and would slay him on a whim. When he had fought them, though, they had not seemed crueler than any other who must fight for his homeland.   
  
Now, he lay staring at the far-off stars and thinking of home, when a distant melody carried on the wind reached his ears. He knew that song. The man roused himself in the chill of night to find most of his men already awake, staring across the darkened fields towards the source of the sound. Though they couldn’t discern the words, the tune was a simple one, a traditional Yule song. Eyes turned towards him in surprise as he began singing, then voices joined his to mingle with the Gondorian voices in the distance. When the song ended, he hurried back to his blankets. He laid there his sword, and took in his hand a little box made of mumak-tusk. He needed to find out if these Men were truly as wicked as tales said. Taking a torch, he set out into the darkness.  
  
~’* ~’* ~’* ~’* ~’* ~’* ~’* ~’* ~’* ~’* ~’* ~’* ~’* ~’* ~’* ~’*  
  
A tiny light progressed across the field, until it could be seen as a torch with a single dark figure illuminated beneath it. When the figure grew close enough, it called out in Westron.  
  
“Do not slay me! I bear no weapons!” These words were repeated several times.  
  
“Captain Faramir, what shall we do?”  
  
Faramir looked out towards the approaching figure.  
  
“Wait here. I will go to meet him.” The dark grass rustled as he walked into the darkness, and he drew his cloak close against the bitter winds.   
  
His men watched anxiously as their captain crossed the field, and saw the two figures halt in the middle. After a short while, Faramir walked back alone, holding a small box in his hand, and smiling.  
  
~’* ~’* ~’* ~’* ~’* ~’* ~’* ~’* ~’* ~’* ~’* ~’* ~’* ~’* ~’* ~’*  
  
An hour later, the middle of the field was full of light and laughter. Several fires were lit over which men of Gondor and Harad joined talents and stores to cook a midnight meal that contained tastes strange and exquisite to both groups’ palates. Among the meager personal possessions the soldiers carried with them, they all found some thing that could be given to another- a pouch of tea leaves, a spare cloak, a string of beads- and as they ate together and shared gifts, the men talked. They shared tales of hardships and found that all soldiers, no matter what side, suffer from wet boots, poor weather, weary days, loss, and the longing for home and family left behind. They shared jokes also, and when the talk and laughter faded, song began. The Men of Harad began with a slow sad chanting that rushed forward as one of the soldiers reappeared with a small drum to accompany the song. The drummer grinned as a Gondorian produced a flute and joined in as well, sending sweet high notes floating above. As the tune ended, Faramir’s men murmured with approval and thanks, and began their own song.   
  
Faramir, however, did not join in the singing. The Haradrim captain had come to him, and they sat together in the flickering firelight, watching over their men and talking together.  
  
“So tell me, why do you fight for the Dark Lord?” Faramir asked quietly.  
  
“We do not call him that,” the Haradrim captain said. “But there are many reasons why I fight. Foremost is that I must. He promises great reward for those who assist him, and great vengeance on those who thwart him. And if my people must fight, then I must fight with them, for honor’s sake. My family would be in disgrace if I were to refuse.”  
  
“Your family? Tell me about them,” Faramir said suddenly.  
  
“I have a wife, two young sons, and an infant daughter. She has her mother’s eyes, and is the fairest being I have ever looked upon,” the man said wistfully. “I miss them greatly. And what of your family?”  
  
“I… have no wife. My family is only my father and my brother. And I have not seen my brother for months. My father and I… we miss him greatly.”  
  
“I hope that he will return to you swiftly, my friend.”  
  
“Thank you. I hope you will soon be able to return to your family as well.”  
  
In silence they commiserated, both their thoughts lingering on dear ones far away, until a Gondorian soldier came towards them with two steaming mugs of fragrant drink.   
  
“The sun will rise soon,” the man said as he pressed the cups into their hands.  
  
Standing, the two captains rejoined their men who waited, shivering, for the dawn.  
  
The Men of Gondor and Harad watched the first rays of sunlight creep across the land, and drained their cups as one.   
  
“Farewell, and I hope I do not meet you again… unless, perhaps, when peace comes,” said the Haradrim captain.  
  
“That is my hope also,” said Faramir solemnly.  
  
The two companies parted and walked slowly and silently on their own separate ways across the field. An early mist shrouded the land, and no sign was left that this Yule night, enemies had met in friendship.  
  
~’* ~’* ~’* ~’* ~’* ~’* ~’* ~’* ~’* ~’* ~’* ~’* ~’* ~’* ~’* ~’*


	2. Truce

It felt like a blow to the chest, stealing his breath and making his heart thud. He set down the healer’s report before him on the desk, but its words kept resounding in his mind. _“Unknown ailment, no pain, no cough, no fever… no source we can find… must consider she may not recover… may die…”_  
  
He had not ever thought it before. In truth he had perhaps avoided thinking it. Now that he could no longer avoid the thought, it terrified him.  
  
He sat in his study, staring at the piece of parchment until he knew what to do.  
  
* * *  
  
Finduilas was resting on the couch in her sitting room when he arrived. Her eyes were closed, and a tiny smile sat on her lips. She looks so young, he thought. Beside her on the table, yesterday’s cheerful yellow flowers were still fresh and unwilted, so he placed the bundle of blue ones in the vase next to it. Late-morning sun lit them, and their scent filled the room.  
  
He turned to find her looking at him, though she still reclined against the pillows.  
  
“They are lovely, as usual, my dear one,” she said.  
  
“I’m glad they please you, my lady.” He went to sit beside her, taking her hand tenderly. “Are you well today? Is there anything you would like?”  
  
“You would have to ask the healers if I am well. I shooed them away, though. I feel much the same as yesterday, and the day before; I am weary, very weary, but I’m not ill. And I have all I need.”   
  
“Are you certain? Perhaps something special for supper?” Denethor asked. He always asked this, or some other question like it, and she always answered in the same way, claiming that she was content, she was not picky, and anyway was not very hungry these days. In the weeks past, they had fallen into something of a routine, and it was no longer even so hard for him to keep his tone light to betray none of his fear for her, or so he thought.  
  
“You have become a mother hen, I think!” she laughed. “Truly! I’m sure none who know you would believe it, but you have. And I wonder why,” she said, her voice suddenly serious. He had not told her of the healer’s report. They had impressed upon him that there was still hope, and that she should not be led to believe otherwise, lest despair worsen her chances. When he did not answer, she turned her eyes on him with a look that had always pierced his heart; she seemed to look deep inside him, and always seemed intrigued and mildly amused by what she found. “Tell me what has worried you so.”  
  
Before he could stop himself, he had answered. “The healers… they do not know why you are growing weary, and they do not know how to help you. They say… you may not recover.” He clasped her hand tighter. “But you may, also. They do not know.”  
  
Slowly she nodded and said, as if to herself, “At least I was correct in thinking that they can tell me little.” After a moment, she said to him, “So they do not know. What do _you_ think, my husband? Will I recover?”  
  
“Yes. Yes, you will recover,” he said, swallowing his worry and trying to smile.  
  
“Then I will,” she said simply, and moved to rest against him. His arm around her held her close, and they sat in silence.  
  
Her breathing had slowed, and her eyes fallen shut again. He began to slide away as slowly and gently as he could so as not to wake her, when her voice came softly, “Either way, there is this… it has been years since we have spent so much time together. You will come again later, when you can?”  
  
“Of course. I will try not to be long,” he answered, standing as she sank back against the pillows.   
  
He turned to leave, then turned back, and leaned close to her to brush a stray hair tenderly from her face, and to kiss her brow. She smiled as he did so.  
  
When next he found a few spare minutes to come to her, he would bring Boromir and Faramir as well, as he did every day, and together they would sit with her and talk, or the boys would play quietly, and they would all be happy for a time. And when his duties called him again, he would return them to their caretakers, and he would await his next chance to be with Finduilas. He didn’t want to waste a single moment.  
  
When evening came, he would be with her again, and he would check the flowers on her table, and remove them while she slept if they had wilted. And tomorrow, he would bring more.


	3. An Ill-Conceived Notion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boromir falls ill, Orcs attack, and all in all it is an interesting night.

Boromir rarely became ill, but he had certainly managed it this time. It had come on suddenly; this past morn he had felt fine, perhaps a little weary. Now, his head swam with fever, his skin oozed chill sweat, his stomach roiled and his limbs felt weak. He slept fitfully on the camp bed as the waxing moon rose.  
  
The company was too far afield to safely send him –even horsed and with escort—to the City, or even to any of the villages nearer by where there might be a healer, at least until daylight. Orcs had been testing the borders sporadically, some worming their way into Gondor in small groups that hid during the sun’s brightness, but crept out at night to terrorize the villagers. All the companies in the area had to keep a sharp eye at night to spot them, if indeed they were not spotted first themselves. And just hours ago, a messenger had come from Ithilien. The man was one of Faramir’s Rangers, and he warned that a larger group of Orcs had been spotted, heading for the river, at nightfall. There would be a major attack tonight.   
  
Boromir had been reluctantly convinced by Hallas, his second-in-command, to remain at the camp with a small number of men, so that the rest could fight this battle without worrying for the safety of their nearly deliriously ill Captain. Truly, he was too ill to fight, Hallas had said; he could sit this one out. At the time, he had grudgingly agreed, and had fallen back heavily onto the piled blankets. He was asleep before the large part of the company had left the camp.  
  
Now he woke just as suddenly. He still felt as if he were burning and freezing at once, as if trolls were tapping out a tattoo on his skull, as if many small lizards were panicking in his belly. He made a face; his mouth tasted as if something had crawled into it and died. Worst of all, he grumbled to himself, what was he doing here while there was a battle occurring in his vicinity? His men were fighting, he should be with them, ill or no!   
  
With some effort he tossed aside the blankets that covered him, and sat up. The world spun, but only briefly. Not far from him a handful of men were gathered around a small, well-shielded fire, munching something saved from the evening’s ration, and talking quietly. He cleared his throat of the mucus that had gathered there.  
  
“Gailon, have you any liquor in your pack? Something strong that would make for good medicine? Do not tell me you have drunk it all already?”  
  
The man addressed scrunched up his face. “If I let everyone know I had it, there _would_ be none left by now,” he said, but obligingly stood, and dug into the pack he had been using as a seat. After some searching he drew out a small silver bottle, and handed it solemnly to his Captain. Boromir tossed away the remains of the foul-tasting tea that Hallas had insisted would make him feel better, and filled the emptied cup. The liquor warmed his throat, and soon he was feeling much better…  
  
An hour later, of the seven men who had stayed behind, two were standing guard a little distance away from the camp, four had drifted asleep around the fading embers of the fire… and one, after struggling to pull on maille and belt, walked out into the darkness, sword in hand, tottering slightly.  
  
* * *  
  
Ciryandil, son of Calmacil, stalked through the undergrowth, around the scattered bushes, quietly and carefully in the dark. Night battles were more dangerous, but the men of Gondor’s armies tried to counteract their enemies' natural advantage with more skillful maneuvers; these night battles were nearly choreographed, and although this one had been thrown together in a hurry, years of training did their work. He could not see or hear any others near him, but he knew they were there.   
  
As he moved into position, the part of his mind that was not occupied with the job at hand wandered. He was a young man, and had only been part of this company for a little over a year now. He was very, very proud to have been placed here, serving under the son of the Steward. His father, Calmacil, had served under Lord Denethor as a young man, and still spoke of those days with pride and a fierce loyalty. His father’s eyes shone when he would chance to see the Steward, and he would, when plied with enough ale, tell stories of battles he had fought as part of Lord Denethor’s company. And now he, Ciryandil, was a member of the company led by Lord Boromir, Denethor’s son! He had resolved to do honor to the family history (which included others who had served and fought under previous Stewards’ sons) and this year had been one of the happiest of his short life, despite battles and hardships.  
  
He had, when he had first met his Captain, acted like one who knows he is in the presence of a living legend, as indeed he was. Boromir had a reputation for being a fierce and formidable swordsman, a brilliant strategist, and an exacting commander; he had been called the best Man in Gondor, and Ciryandil suspected this was true. He had found himself sweating, unable to find words even to introduce himself. Boromir had not seemed to notice, but had only complimented his abilities, saying that his trainer had recommended him highly, and welcomed him to the company. Some of the older men had grinned, though, and he had learned later that his was not an uncommon reaction for new troops, but that it always passed quickly. Boromir’s straightforward and amiable manner made it difficult to be nervous in his presence, no matter how much one tried to be. He revered his Captain all the more for it.  
  
A sudden noise behind him broke him out of his thoughts; careless footfalls crunched twigs and leaves, branches rustled as they were pushed aside hastily. None of the men would be so reckless! He turned swiftly towards the movement, sword at the ready, and tried to pierce the darkness with his eyes. He could not have been more surprised at what he saw.  
  
It was Lord Boromir.  
  
He let his sword drop along with his jaw. “Captain,” he breathed in a whisper, “what in Arda are you doing here?”  
  
“There are Orcs nearby. There will be a battle. Therefore I am here,” Boromir said with a shrug, and not nearly as quietly as he should have, then squinted at him in the darkness. “Ciryandil? Tell me, which strategy did Hallas choose? How near is the enemy now?”  
  
“They should be just over the ridge by now,” he said with a gesture, “and we are using _tinco_ formation… but, my lord, you are not well enough to fight! You should return to the camp!”   
  
“No, I feel fine now… truly, Ciryandil, do not worry!” He swayed as he said it. Ciryandil took a quick step closer, to steady him if necessary, and caught a whiff of the liquor on his Captain’s breath. Gailon’s liquor, he supposed. Everyone in the company knew of it, but only spoke of it in quiet jests.  
  
“Even if you bid me, as Captain of this company, not to worry about you, I still would do. Please, let me take you back to the camp…”  
  
“No,” Boromir cut him off. “We will continue on towards the enemy. We will be needed in this battle.” He looked towards the ridge, with blurred fire in his eyes, and Ciryandil knew that there was no argument he could give that would change his Captain’s mind. The best he could do, he supposed, was to try to delay their progress, and watch over him as best he could.  
  
With Ciryandil beside him, Boromir had steadied and quickly gone into the familiar role of careful, skilled soldier, though it cost him more effort than usual. They had crept slowly and quietly towards the ridge, and even more slowly and silently up it. Though he did not one bit like leading his Captain towards a battle in this condition, Ciryandil could not disobey his orders, and secretly cherished the feeling of being there with him; it was a story he would tell his grandchildren one day, he felt certain. At least, he thought with a gulp, if things didn’t go ill when the signal came to attack. He was glad they were at the edge of the _lúva_ , where the fighting should be less…  
  
At last they had crested the ridge, crept most of the way down the far side, and waited, crouched in the undergrowth. Within a long throw’s distance, the _glamhoth_ could be heard, nearing the pass between forest and hill. The signal would come soon… and just then, the two men heard a birdcall-like whistle… from _behind_ them. It was not the signal to attack. It was a Ranger signal, and one that Ciryandil was not familiar with. Boromir’s eyes widened, though. Even dazed as he was, he recognized it. Before either had a chance to turn, the general attack call came, repeated along the lines until it had been heard by all. The small force at the top of the _lúva_ , placed there as bait, had been seen, and the battle had begun. In rapid succession, the _glamhoth_ rushed forward in attack just as they had hoped, the archers in the forest and on the heights gave a series of volleys, and the night stillness was shattered as over a hundred swordsmen came forth from the bottom of the hill and from the far forest in ambush.  
  
Boromir had recognized the call, but it didn’t stop him from what he felt he must do. When the battle-roar began, no fog in his mind or ache in his limbs could stop him. He charged out of the brush… or rather, he tried to. Something was holding him back. For a moment, he flailed wildly, trying to free himself, then something knocked his sword from his grip, and suddenly he was lying flat on his back on the ground.   
  
He drew breath to swear, and found himself blinking up at Faramir, who was swearing quite well enough for the both of them.  
  
“Brother, you are truly the most foolhardy, troublesome, asinine _ass_ in all of Gondor’s armies! What in Arda were you thinking?” Faramir spoke a few more choice words about his brother’s stupidity and hardheadedness, words that should have withered flowers for leagues around, then subsided. “I take it you are feeling somewhat better?”  
  
“Faramir…” Boromir said, still blinking, “why are you here? You were… in Ithilien… your messenger…”  
  
“Yes, I know. And he returned and told me that my brother was laid up, terribly ill. I worried, and,” he cleared his throat, “when I arrived at your camp, you were not there, and your men were in a panic. Particularly Gailon. I made the reasonable assumption, and it is a good thing for you that I did.”  
  
“I would have been fine,” Boromir muttered, and struggled to sit up.   
  
“Perhaps. But it is a risk you don’t need to take. Hallas has things well in hand,” he said, and offered Boromir his.  
  
Ciryandil had watched all of this with a curious mixture of shock, relief, and fear. He had recognized Lord Faramir from the few occasions that the two Captains’ companies had met. The shock had come from his sudden appearance from the darkness. The relief stemmed from knowing that Faramir would be able to stop his brother where Ciryandil could not. The fear… well, it occurred to him now that, orders or no, Faramir would not be pleased with him.   
  
Many people considered Faramir to be the less formidable of the two brothers, but Ciryandil had always been somewhat daunted by him. He seemed… less approachable, loftier somehow, and he reminded him of stories his father had told about Lord Denethor, about the power in the man’s gaze. He had to force himself, now, to speak.  
  
“My lords… shall I…?” he gestured hesitantly toward the battle.  
  
Faramir shook his head. “No, come with us. I suspect I may need help in getting him back to your camp.” Boromir was already leaning on his brother as he stood, but he nodded assent at this.  
  
With some difficulty, the three wove their way back to the other side of the ridge, leaving the noise of the ongoing battle behind them. The camp was still far, and Boromir grew more and more weary, until he was supported by Faramir on one side and Ciryandil on the other. Occasionally he would mutter something unintelligible, but other than that, they walked in silence. By the time they reached the camp, Ciryandil was nearly quivering with fear of repercussion.  
  
As they neared the camp, Gailon and the others rushed out to meet them. There was a brief flurry of motion and chatter as they all tried to assist at once, but then they saw that their Captain was merely half-asleep and not wounded, and gave way for Faramir to bring his brother back to the bed he had left so abruptly, hours ago.  
  
And there by his side Faramir stayed until sunrise. Ciryandil stood nearby. When Boromir had fallen fully asleep, he said in a halting voice, “Lord Faramir, I am glad you found us when you did… I could not…”  
  
“I know, lad, don’t look so frightened. When my brother gets an idea in his head, it is hard to deter him, even when he is not fever-addled. You are not to blame, and after all, no harm was done,” Faramir said softly.  
  
Gailon chose that moment to approach. “Does that also mean I am not to blame, my lord?” he said with a self-deprecating grin.  
  
“You, Gailon, should have known better,” Faramir replied, one eyebrow arched, but with a half-smile and a sparkle in his eyes.  
  
The rest of the night passed without incident, except for two things. Perhaps two hours after the three had returned, the rest of the company filtered back, weary but victorious.   
  
Then, a short while later, just before sunrise, Boromir opened his eyes again to find Faramir still watching over him. “Little brother, can we perhaps not tell Father about this?” he asked in a weak voice.  
  
“Perhaps,” replied Faramir, chuckling. “But only if you will promise not to give me a night like that ever again!”  
  
“You needn’t worry about that,” Boromir said, smiling faintly at his brother, then sighed and fell back asleep.  
  
* * *  
  
“And that, my daughter, is the tale of the night I spent with both of Denethor’s sons.”  
  
“And the Faramir in the story is our Steward now?” the young girl asked dubiously.  
  
“Yes, he is. He is a great man,” Ciryandil said, his eyes shining with pride and fierce loyalty. “And his brother was also.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elvish terms:   
> lúva is the Quenya name of the “bow” of a Tengwar character, and here means the wraparound arm of an ambush.  
> tinco is the Quenya name of a Tengwar character that looks kinda like an un-closed “P”  
> glamhoth is Sindarin for “Orc-host”


	4. Last Night in the City

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boromir's last night in Minas Tirith.

_I can only hope I am doing the right thing. I feel I am. I must be._  
  
“Are you sure that is a wise choice?” said a voice from the doorway as if in answer to his thoughts. Startled, Boromir snapped a glance over his shoulder towards the source, though he already knew who had spoken.  
  
Faramir was leaning against the frame of the door with an unreadable expression on his face and gesturing towards the folded tunic in his brother’s hand.   
  
“That,” Faramir said in answer to his look of confusion. “Are you sure it is a wise choice for your journey?” To this, Boromir just shrugged. He looked down at the red tunic he was about to lay in his pack. Why would it not be a wise choice? He was to travel as an envoy of Gondor, and the garment with its fine weave and gold wirework would be appropriate as a show of status. As if reading his mind, Faramir said “You are likely to meet danger on the road. You may meet some who think a Captain of Gondor would make a wonderfully advantageous prisoner.”  
  
“Brother, I have never been and will never be captured. Anyone who tried would get more than he bargained for,” Boromir answered, trying to force some humor into his voice but not quite succeeding. He avoided Faramir’s glance, looking intently down at the pack half-filled on his bed.  
  
“Still, red is too visible. Even if any rogues you meet care nothing for status, you might want to be able to avoid being seen,” Faramir countered.  
  
Boromir sighed and removed the tunic from his pack. Faramir was right, and he couldn’t deny it. Boromir didn’t like anything that felt devious, and although he knew well the value of concealment and surprise in military matters, this felt more personal, and it irked him. Still, he had no way of knowing what he might meet. It was better to prepare for the worst, and speaking of preparation he would have little enough space in his pack for necessities to be able to justify bringing a tunic he could not wear until the end of his road. He sighed again and replaced the red tunic with a plain black one, and another of dark forest green, equally unadorned, one thick and warm, the other lighter for warm weather. The clothes he had already placed in the pack were of dark colors, fortunately, as was his fur-lined cloak, so those would all meet with Faramir’s approval, he thought wryly, and so save him from having to re-pack.   
  
Faramir still stood silently at the door. Boromir had not expected his brother to seek him out tonight, though perhaps he should have. Early tomorrow, at first light, he would be gone on his quest to follow the dream they had shared. He fussed with the placement of the things in the pack for a moment, then sat down wearily and looked at Faramir.  
  
“Have you come to try to change my mind again, little brother?” He said.  
  
“No,” said Faramir, with a small smile. “I know you too well for that. If I have not already convinced you, I never will.”  
  
“Then why have you come?” Boromir’s words came out brusque and harsh. All that day there had been a tension between them. He had ridden hastily back to the White City only a day after having left, then burst into his father’s hall where he knew he would find his father and assorted counselors, and Faramir laying out his plan for the journey that must be made. He had demanded to take the journey upon himself. He had known that Faramir would not be pleased with him, to put it mildly, but it had been worse than he expected. After his father and the counselors had decided in Boromir’s favor, he and Faramir had continued the argument privately, for hours, and neither would acquiesce. It had ended at a stalemate when Boromir had excused himself to go prepare for his journey.  
  
“Tomorrow you leave. Do you not want to see me tonight, knowing it may be long before we meet again? Shall I leave you be?” Faramir’s expression was one of weariness only, but the reproach in his words was clear.   
  
“I am sorry, Faramir,” Boromir answered, though it wasn’t clear whether he was apologizing for his angry words or for insisting on taking this mission. He had tried to tell Faramir why he felt he needed to be the one to go, and if Faramir had understood his reasons, he had deemed them insufficient. “I do want to see you.” It was true. He did want to be with his brother tonight of all nights, but only if it was not to be a night spent in argument and bitterness. It would be hard enough to leave, much as he felt it was necessary, but he did not want to leave with Faramir angry with him. “And if you say you know me well enough to know I will not be swayed, may I say I know you well enough to know you will forgive me?” Boromir queried tentatively, searching Faramir’s face for a reply in the silence that stretched. At length Faramir came to sit near him.  
  
“Whether I would forgive you was never in doubt, nor is it the important question. I still don’t think you should go. You will be needed here,”  
  
“As will you!” Boromir muttered.  
  
Faramir didn’t even pause, but continued as if his brother had not interrupted. “…and I feel in my heart that I should be the one to undertake this journey. Still, if I cannot dissuade you, then I must help you prepare.”  
  
“I’m nearly done packing already. I must travel light.” Boromir said.  
  
“I wasn’t talking about helping you pack.”  
  
“What else is there? You cannot advise me about which route I am to take; I know as much as you do, and there is not much to know.”  
  
“Nor that.”  
  
“What, then?”  
  
“I thought you might want… well, of late all your time is spent in worry and uncertainty. I fear you will have enough of that in your journey. Were I the one to leave, I would want to enjoy today.” Faramir’s expression was guarded as he spoke these words, and Boromir tried to ignore the sure knowledge that Faramir resented that he would not be the one leaving. After a short silence, Faramir sighed and smiled faintly. “Come, brother, let us speak of something other than journeys and war and worries. It has been long since we had time to do so.”  
  
They were together the rest of the day and into the night. Their talk meandered from their earliest memories and happiest days to the hardships they had endured and worries they still shouldered, and how they had always relied upon each other when it seemed to be too much to bear. They laughed long over memories of mischief that they had gotten into- usually at Boromir’s urging- in their youth, and fell silent when remembering old grief.   
  
As the sun was sinking into the west, they went out to walk together, treading familiar paths through the upper levels of the city, passing old haunts with a shared, knowing glance. As they walked, Boromir relished the sound of his boots on the stone streets and walkways, and he absorbed the view of the city around them, cherishing all the little details that usually went unnoticed. The scents of the city alone! Sun-warmed stone cooling in the evening air, the aroma of roasted meats from somewhere nearby, an odor of ale and warm bodies as they passed the doors of an inn, a brief whiff of night-blooming flowers from a box hung in a window high above, the many mingled smells that were the marketplace, the faint and distant scent of hay and tilled earth from the farms of the Pelennor, and over it all the clear fresh air that flowed down from the snow-clad slopes of the White Mountains.   
  
Around them as they walked, people strode homewards after their day’s work, or hurried to complete an errand before dark. Boromir had lived his whole life here, and had loved the city and its people--his people!--during all that time, but these common sights were so much more precious now that he was leaving them. He had made his decision to leave in such haste, he had not fully considered that his journey would mean leaving behind all that he loved, his city and his people and his family. His eyes misted with love and devotion, and he realized that leaving was the last thing he wanted to do. He truly did not want to leave! But he must… it was too important. He looked up to see Faramir eyeing him with a pained expression much like the one he had worn as they argued all that day, and Boromir guessed that his brother knew his thoughts. He gave a little sighing shrug as they turned to head homewards.  
  
They ate together, with their father and no others, that night. Denethor had not truly wanted to allow Boromir to go; by all accounts, Imladris was far, and the journey would be dangerous. But he also saw that the riddle of the dream needed answering, and Boromir had argued to take the journey himself so convincingly that his father could not deny him.   
  
At the end of the evening, the tension between the brothers had dissolved as if it had never been.  
  
“There. Now you will have a pleasant memory to hold close, when home and hope seem far,” Faramir said as they paused in the quiet hallway before turning in.  
  
“I have a lifetime of them already,” Boromir said with a grin, “but thank you.”  
  
Faramir had turned towards his own door when Boromir stopped him with a tentative hand on his arm. “You will wake, to see me off in the morning?”  
  
“Of course! I wouldn’t miss it,” Faramir answered.  
  
Boromir was content, and slept well that night, the last night he would spend in Minas Tirith.


	5. Poor Child, or What Really Happened to Mary Sue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The problem of going to Middle-earth is that you never know when you'll wind up.

“Poor child,” the healer said, looking over his new charge “where did you say she was found?”  
  
“Out in the fields. One of the farmers found her. She was lucky, for he said he fears no plague after his own children perished of it months ago, leaving him untouched. Many would have left her there…”  
  
“Aye, lucky she was. Not that I think her chances are very good, but at least she will be comfortable now.” He looked down at the scrawny thing bundled up on the bed. She looked half-starved, her pale cheeks were hollow, and her long hair was in tangles. They had removed her muddy, strangely-tailored clothes and put her in a light shift before they had laid her on the bed. Now she slept, but when she had first been brought, she had babbled weakly in some strange tongue.  
  
 _“Where am I? Isn’t this Middle-earth? Why do I feel so awful?”_  
  
He felt bad that there wasn’t much he could do for her that hadn’t already been done, but that was his lot during this year of plague, and there were many others to tend to.  
  
* * *  
  
A young woman, once a healer’s daughter and now an orphan, brought broth to all the sick who had found their way to the guesthouse on the first level of the city, which was being used as a quarantine area. The house was quiet aside from the occasional faint moan of the afflicted. She made her way to the last bed in the row, where a young girl lay with wide, frightened eyes.  
  
“Here is some broth, child. Are you well enough to drink? It will help you keep some strength.”  
  
The girl struggled to sit up in bed, then sank back to the pillows and looked at the young woman standing over her. _“Who are you? Won’t somebody tell me where I am? I want to go home! I need a doctor…”_  
  
Of the few healers and other assistants who cared for the people in this house, none could make sense of her strange talk –perhaps just fevered babble and not language at all, they deemed— and no others would dare to enter this place if they could avoid it. The healer’s aide looked kindly at the girl, and spoke in a comforting tone, “I wish I could understand your speech. If we knew where you had come from, we could try to send some word to your family… Ah well. Perhaps it is just the fever, and you will remember when you get well.” Even if the girl didn’t understand her, she disliked lying to her. It was not likely that the girl would recover. So few of the afflicted ever did.  
  
The girl let her ladle a few sips of broth into her mouth, then turned away from her and curled up on her side. She placed the bowl where the girl could reach it easily, and stood up to continue her rounds.   
  
* * *  
  
The girl lay abed, too weak to move, and her mind wandered in strange waking dreams. She dreamed of being warm. Even though a fire crackled on the far side of the room, and the fever raged in her, and blankets were heavy on her limbs, she never felt warm anymore. She thought of home, and her thoughts were scattered with dimly-remembered images of her parents and her brother and her little sister, of her grandparents, and all her friends. She dreamed of her room… she couldn’t remember what it looked like, but she remembered that she was always comfortable there, and that it had nice things in it. She tried to remember how she had gotten here, to this tiny bed in a room filled with sick-people smells and noises. She remembered being very happy over… something… just days ago. A journey, was that right? She remembered thinking how much she would have to tell everyone here, and all the wonderful things she would do, and how jealous her friends would be when she got home… she was going to save someone, wasn’t she? She tried to remember, but it was like trying to capture starlight in a bottle.   
  
Starlight in a bottle? …starlight in a glass? The image seemed familiar but she couldn’t place it.   
  
She racked her brain, trying to remember what had happened, after she had been so happy. Something bad must have happened, but what? The next thing she remembered was walking into a little village where no one understood her. She remembered trying to talk to people, and getting frustrated nearly to tears. She remembered thinking that there was something very wrong about everything. She had felt so alone. And then she remembered walking more, she didn’t remember for how long, and then feeling ill and lying down to sleep in a field… and then being here. Nothing seemed clear anymore, and she tried desperately to remember what her mother looked like, before coughing weakly and falling into a restless sleep.  
  
* * *  
  
After several days, the girl at the end of the row of beds had stopped babbling in that strange tongue, and had lain silent. Only hours before she perished, she had spoken, clearly but weakly, in the common tongue.  
  
“Am I dying? I'm scared…”  
  
The healer’s assistant had answered, trying not to let her face show her worry. “Do not be afraid… you may get well. What is your name? Where is your family?”  
  
The girl on the bed had started to weep. “I don’t know!” she had said, and it was clear she was answering both questions. The healer’s assistant had gently tried to ask her where she was from, but the girl fell back into sleep, breathing shallowly, and spoke no more.  
  
* * *  
  
Not far from the wall, the many mounded graves lay, their stark shadows stretching out over empty fields in the morning sunlight. The young healer’s-assistant didn’t have much time to come to visit them, for many were still ill and needed tending, but she felt it was her duty. One who lay here had no one else to mourn her; a nameless child fallen to the plague. Mayhap, she thought, the girl’s family had all perished before her, and loss and illness had scoured them and all else from her memory? Whatever had happened to her, no one would ever know it. This one poor child… the healer’s assistant stared out over the shadows, into the far distance, and she shuddered. It was as if… as if she could see this place, these graves, fading into the past, utterly forgotten. The young woman tried to capture this vision, to make sense of it… but it was gone. She blinked away the moisture from her eyes and walked slowly back to the House of the Dying.  
  
* * *  
  
Scribe’s Note:  
  
Despite the dubious nature of this story, it is left in this history for the sake of completeness, for little enough information about the plague years has survived. According to the tale as it was recorded ages ago, Mary Sue Sperling perished in T.A. 1636, during Urimë. Before her clothes were burned, a piece of paper was found in a pocket. The strange letters on it were recorded along with the rest of this tale, and left for historians to ponder. From this we know her name. From the description of her youth and her strange clothes, it is likely that her year of birth was near 1990 A.D. However, diligent search of current records has turned up no record of the disappearance of a Mary Sue Sperling, nor any evidence that this person ever existed. This scribe believes it is more likely that the healer’s assistant’s speculation was correct, and that all the "evidence" that a modern girl lived, however briefly, in the third age is merely strange coincidence. But, as in so many other ancient tales of lore, it is likely we will never know the truth of the matter, and readers may judge for themselves.


	6. The Mouth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing but silliness.

“MOUTH! MOUUUUUU-TH!” the Orc looking out over the Black Gate hollered. The call came out sounding rather shrieky and impatient, even though he tried to force some of the usual growly quality into his voice, but it was hard to do when hollering at the top of his lungs. He tried to make up for it by scowling and snarling a bit, but the effort was wasted as no one was there to see.  
  
Moments later, Sauron’s chief lieutenant stuck his head out from the little building at the foot of the gate. “What?” he shouted, expertly retaining his sneer with a professionalism that lesser evils could only envy.  
  
“The army from Gondor… they’re almost here!”   
  
The first few rows of the assembled Legions of Orcs and Evil Men of Mordor grumbled at this news, but the grumbles turned into shouts of feigned enthusiasm and the thumping of scimitars against shields as the Mouth emerged, hissing loudly and threateningly in their direction. He glared at the troops, and hissed “We will be ready.”  
  
The Mouth of Sauron, crueler than any Orc and more evil than any but his master (whose name he liked to say, sometimes repeatedly, whenever he felt he could get away with it), made a great show of walking up and down the front line of troops, inspecting their stance and weaponry and armour. Here was the cream of the crop; the wickedest Orcs and the toughest evil Men, all armed and outfitted in the most frightening of Mordor fashions. He sneered at each as he passed (for true evil does not smile, or at least only smiles when doing something truly malevolent, like popping out the eyeballs of prisoners with his thumbs, or defeating and fouling entire lands) and glanced at their personal decorations. Some had painted gory images around the Eye on their shields, and some had added personal slogans. “I’d rather be whipping underlings” read one. The Mouth sneered at this; a sentiment he could agree with. The next was painted with a rather artistically muddled mixture of dark red and black, like blood on a battlefield. The Mouth nodded judiciously, and walked on. He passed a few of the more boring type before stopping cold in front of a towering Orc a full head taller than himself.  
  
“WHAT is the meaning of thissssss?” The Mouth hiss-shrieked, losing his evil composure for the first time in more years than he could count (at least without taking out his bag of severed trophy fingers). He poked disgustedly at the shield, painted in pastel shades and adorned with fluffy bunnies and cute puppies and colorful flowers.  
  
“I thought it was scary,” the big Orc muttered apologetically, cringing away from the Mouth’s obvious ire.  
  
“SSSCARY? You thought thisss was ssscary? You wouldn’t know ssscary if it bit you with Warg’s teeth!” the Mouth hissed fiercely.  
  
All the Orcs and Men within a 10 foot radius inched backwards, and surreptitiously wiped the brown droplets of spittle from their faces. The Mouth was not called the Mouth for nothing.   
  
The Mouth hissed at the cowed Orc before him once more, then sneered, “You’re a sorry excuse for evil! I would flay the skin from your back if we weren’t at war! As it is, I’ll let the enemy do that; we can’t let one of Sauron’s soldiers be seen with _fluffy bunnies_ on his shield, so you’ll go into battle without it!” Smiling truly now, lips stretched and pulled back from brown teeth widely, he snatched at the offending shield. The Orc stepped back and clutched it protectively.   
  
“But I _like_ it! …It’s… it’s _lucky_ , that’s right! Lucky shield!” He shook it slightly, to emphasize the words. Suddenly, however, with fantastic strength, the Mouth yanked it from his grasp and tossed it down… where it landed face-down in a foul patch of something that might have been ordinary mud, had not the dirt all around it been dry. The big Orc leaned and picked it up, looking decidedly upset by this turn of events. His fluffy bunnies were now smeared over with filth. He grimaced and held it staunchly again. Growls of laughter rumbled through the ranks behind him.  
  
“Better!” sneered the Mouth, who then turned and stormed back to the building at the base of the Black Gate. _That fool knows absolutely nothing about making a dramatic appearance! No idea how to be properly evil!_ the Mouth thought to himself as he entered the little room. _Being evil, and looking evil, takes work, preparation, and planning!_  
  
He looked over the little stoppered bottles, and the plates and bowls containing substances brought fresh from the slave-farms around the Sea of Núrnen. What should he use for this most momentous meeting? It had been long since he had had a chance like this… nothing but the best would suffice.  
  
He reached for a plate piled with little black things, and popped a handful into his mouth, and chewed them thoughtfully before donning all of his blackest, most evil garb.  
  
A few minutes later, he ordered the Gate opened, and went out. He stretched his lips into his widest, most vicious smile, the one he only wore when preparing to lead the battle that would crush the spirits of all free people, or perhaps when saying “Sauron Sauron Sauron Sauron!” while alone in his rooms. And from his long jagged teeth, mulberry juice dripped menacingly.


	7. Research

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Faramir can't find a book in the archives.

Faramir wandered down one of the long aisles of the archives, looking intently at the rows of books and scrolls. He had become very familiar with the archives over the past few months; his studies had become both more difficult and more interesting, and he would often go there afterward to browse for other books on any subject that had caught his imagination. That day, his tutors had been instructing him on the history of Ithilien, and he had a small handful of books and scrolls on the topic all ready on the table by the door. But, no matter how good he had become at navigating this well-ordered disorder, he could not find the last book he sought! He knew it should be there; he had looked at it briefly not a month before, and it should be hard to miss—it was a huge old tome with cracked green binding. But it was not there.  
  
Defeated, he picked up his selections and headed back to his chamber to study them at his leisure. As he walked down the corridor, he noticed something odd: Boromir’s door was ajar. Boromir never left it open when he wasn’t there, and usually at this hour he was either out on the practice yard or wandering who-knows-where in the City. He had become very close regarding his whereabouts ever since he'd passed his fifteenth winter, and in the last few months he had become positively secretive. They rarely spent time together anymore except at mealtimes or late in the evening. Faramir might have felt hurt by this, except that he himself had become too busy to be lonely.  
  
But now he rushed ahead to drop his books in his own chamber, then headed back to Boromir’s door. Peering in, he saw nothing, so he rapped lightly on the door and slipped inside. “Boromir, are you here?”   
  
“Yes. Over here,” came his brother’s voice softly from the far side of the bed. Faramir could only see his feet beyond it. _What is he doing lying on the floor?_ Faramir wondered. He walked over to find Boromir sprawled out on his belly with a piece of thick canvas before him and pots of paint arrayed all around him. He was holding a fine-haired brush, carefully dabbing it at a light green patch on the fabric.  
  
“What are you doing?” Faramir asked, somewhat startled. Boromir had, to put it lightly, never shown much interest in art.  
  
“Painting,” murmured Boromir, still dabbing away.  
  
“I can see that, but _what_ are you painting?”  
  
Apparently satisfied, Boromir set his brush aside and sat back, gesturing to Faramir to see for himself. Faramir leaned close to study it. “Why, it’s a map! Of… Dagorlad?” Faramir said, at last recognizing it. It seemed to be accurate, and it was certainly meticulously painted, with hills shaded to indicate elevation, and wide areas of plains painted in mottled brown and grass-green, with little roads running across. “But why?” he asked, turning to look at his brother.  
  
At this, Boromir grinned widely. “Let me show you.” He reached under his bed and pulled out a long low box. He flipped the latch and opened it, still keeping its contents hidden, then pulled out a stack of painted canvas maps much like the one drying on the floor nearby. Faramir recognized the one on top instantly: north Ithilien. Next, Boromir drew out a handful of tiny figures, and handed one to Faramir. It was a wooden soldier, no bigger than Faramir’s thumb, carved in amazing detail. Its painted garb was green. “I’ve been working on those for months,” Boromir added. When Faramir looked back at his brother, he saw that he was placing a few of the figures down carefully on the map of Ithilien.  
  
“You see? Each figure represents a company,” Boromir said excitedly. “I’ve read about all these battles, but the stories don’t tell what _happened_. Or, well, some of them do, but the older ones, like the Battle of Dagorlad?” he shook his head. “With this, I can play out the battle, and find out how it must have been done. Or at least I think I can,” he added thoughtfully, looking at the map and the figures on it. “It _is_ easier if I can _see_ it.”  
  
“But there were already maps. And Father’s chess pieces could have worked for the figures…” Faramir said, still marveling over how much work had gone into this.  
  
“I know. But I wanted to make them all myself. These will be better, too,” Boromir said, moving one of the figures a few inches on the map, “for I won’t have to return them whenever Father wants to play chess.”  
  
Faramir sat down on the floor across the map from Boromir, and for several minutes watched him silently as he shuffled around the figures, paused and looked at them critically, then moved them around some more. “And, now that you have found me out, you can help. There is a passage that I can’t make sense of…” Boromir said at last, reaching back into the box and drawing out a huge book bound with cracked green leather.  
  
“Hey!” cried Faramir at the sight of it. “You had it? I had been looking for that book all day!”  
  
Boromir grinned. “You’re not the only one who can find his way around the archives, little brother. You can take the book with you when we’re done. Now, tell me what you think this means…”


	8. Vision Unblemished

Faramir watched as hammer struck chisel, tapping away chips of stone from the block. He had been watching for a while, and shape was beginning to appear from it: an upright form, tall and dignified and familiar. The woman who crafted it paused briefly in her work, shaking out her hands and rubbing them together. She turned to him only slightly when she spoke.   
  
“It will not be complete for some time yet, I’m afraid.”  
  
He glanced from the half-made statue to the woman. Her eyes were sunken, the lids scarred and closed over empty sockets, but her face was calm, and might, years before, have been beautiful.  
  
“I know. But if it does not bother you, I would enjoy watching you work for a while longer,” he said.  
  
She smiled. “Watch, then, if it pleases you.”  
  
The steady tapping of her hammer continued. Her work was precise, leisurely, and the folds of a robe began to appear on the rough figure. Every now and then, her hands would explore the stone, seeing it through her touch. It seemed miraculous that the blinded woman could continue in her trade, but even without sight she was among the best in the City.   
  
The City. Outside of the room in which Faramir sat, life continued on. Rebuilding had at last been completed, and Minas Tirith was again as lovely as he had ever seen it. The shattered stone which had rained knife-like splinters into the sculptress’ eyes as she glanced up in horror during the siege had long since been carted off and replaced.   
  
And the people of the city were pleased by this renewal, as they had every right to be. The long struggle which had worn away at them all was over. The king had returned. Peace could be enjoyed, and prosperity regained.   
  
But memory remained, as it should, even in the midst of this happiness. Memory, in which the courage of Men had blazed brightly across dark days. Memory, in which lost dear ones still spoke and breathed. Memory, in which the ache of loss lived on. Those would not be paved over like a stretch of broken street.   
  
The sculptress tapped away bits of stone, as if uncovering a figure enclosed within it, and her memory guided her. Her memory of things seen could not be blemished, and the face that she revealed from the stone was the same: Denethor, with his deep eyes fixed in confident far-sight, before despair had come to him. Denethor, as Faramir desired to remember him, untouched by a vision of flames.


	9. Fortune Favors the Bold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new law in Gondor forces Faramir (and his dead brother) to take action.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bunch of absurd silliness written for the "LJ fiasco" challenge when LJ was jerking fandom around and deleting blogs indiscriminately.

“Can he do that?” Boromir’s ghost gestured towards the scroll containing Aragorn’s latest decree after reading through it with an increasingly stunned look.  
  
Faramir glanced up, his expression resignedly unhappy. “Of course he can. He is the king, you know.”  
  
Boromir’s ghost snorted. “Don’t remind me. And that’s not really what I meant, anyhow.”   
  
There was a long silence, before Boromir’s ghost realized that Faramir was waiting for him to explain himself. “Ah. Well… it won’t particularly affect me either way—what is he going to do, sentence me to death?—but I wouldn’t have thought that the people of Gondor would put up with that. Even as vague as it is on the details…”  
  
“It could affect you,” Faramir said, eyeing him darkly. “And what did you expect the people to do? Overthrow him?”  
  
“Nay, of course not. But Rohan is a rather nice place.” Boromir’s ghost twiddled its thumbs and looked contemplatively toward the ceiling.  
  
Faramir sputtered. “What?! You expected everyone to _leave Gondor_?” Boromir only shrugged in response. Faramir had never remembered his brother to be quite so frustrating while he was alive… no, actually that wasn’t true. But if anyone could have been called staunchly and vocally Gondorian, it was Boromir. “You can’t really mean that.”  
  
“Hm, well, not everyone, of course. And I don’t think I will leave.”  
  
“You had better not. _I_ cannot go live in Rohan.” Faramir took advantage of the silence to get himself a glass of much-needed wine. He started to pour another for Boromir, but then stopped himself. It was difficult to get used to having a ghost around the house. Particularly when that ghost was one’s brother.   
  
Boromir watched him with sympathy, although it wasn’t any easier _being_ the ghost around the house. He too could have done with a drink after news like that, but, alas, it was not to be.  
  
Faramir broke the silence after a moment. “So what shall we do about this? I think it would be hard to convince the council on this one, but I could speak to King Elessar directly. As Steward, my voice does have some weight. Perhaps if I am very persuasive…”  
  
“As you usually are,” Boromir’s ghost interrupted him and winked.   
  
“…I might get him to reverse his decision. What do you think?” Faramir said.  
  
“Well, that is one option. But I was more planning on simply not obeying.”  
  
Faramir stared at him. Boromir ignored his stare. Faramir stared some more, and narrowed his eyes a bit. Boromir at last met his gaze, and suddenly looked sheepish.  
  
“Palantír?” He asked.  
  
Faramir nodded.  
  
“Ah. Yes. Right,” Boromir said, and his ghost contrived to blush (which was an alarming sight on many fronts). “So, I suppose you had better go and see if you can’t convince our lord and king to change his mind. If that doesn’t work, I’ll organize a protest.”  
  
“You’ll…?” It seemed to Faramir that the conversation had taken a turn even further towards the surreal. “Don’t you think people will be a little surprised at your sudden and unexpected reappearance? Particularly if you appear, all pale and insubstantial, to tell them to rise up against the king?”  
  
Boromir pondered this for a moment. “I see what you mean. But I’ll work something out. And if I can find enough cats…”  
  
“Cats?”  
  
Boromir waved the question away. “Can’t have a protest without… oh, never mind.”  
  
Faramir knew better than to inquire further, and he started preparing for the ride to Minas Tirith right away. As soon as he got a bag packed, and had kissed Éowyn goodbye, he popped his head back into the room where Boromir’s ghost stayed.   
  
“No going ‘bump’ in the night while I’m gone, if you please.”  
  
Boromir looked disappointed, but did not argue.  
  
* * *  
  
Faramir sat, somewhat uncomfortably, in Elessar’s study. His discomfort did not stem from any physical circumstance—the chair on which he sat was perhaps slightly more festooned with Elvishly embroidered cushions than was necessary, but not to the point of absurdity, and the room was warm and well-lit—but instead from the topic that he had come to broach. He had not yet been able to bring himself to mention it, and instead had made relatively small talk for nearly half an hour so far. However, there was only so much he could say along the lines of making sure that the new king had a handle on all the various paperwork troubles for which he had inherited responsibility. He steeled himself to take the plunge…  
  
“But, of course, I’m sure you’ve realized that I had other matters in mind when I came here…” he said.  
  
“Aye, I was wondering about that. Your help with all of this is much appreciated, though. Now, what else did you wish to speak about?” Elessar asked lightly.  
  
“The matter that I wanted to discuss was… your most recent decree.”   
  
The king shifted slightly in his seat, and placed his hands before him on the desk. “Oh. That.”  
  
“Yes. That,” Faramir said. “It seems to go a bit beyond the scope of law as we are familiar with it, and I was hoping you could enlighten me as to the reasons you’ve decided it is necessary.”  
  
“It is an Elvish law,” Elessar said with an apologetic shrug.   
  
“Ah.” Faramir let his dubious look speak for him. Elessar had always seemed to him to be perfectly used to the ways of Men, even if he had been raised among Elves. He wondered now if perhaps he had been wrong about that.   
  
“Arwen is used to Elvish society. She pointed out the absence of this law here. I couldn’t very well ignore her request, could I?”  
  
Faramir pondered this for a moment, and came to the conclusion that the king had certainly been put into an unenviable situation. “I suppose you must do what you feel you must, under the circumstances. And I would certainly not want the queen to be uncomfortable here. But the punishment seems harsh, also. Is that, too, a part of the Elvish law?”  
  
“Actually, yes. But banishment for life is a much longer sentence for the Eldar, you know,” the king said, letting out a little laugh.   
  
“True enough. Still…” Faramir couldn’t think of any way to explain to the king that the deeds that he had just banned were, well, not exactly _common_ in Gondor, but tacitly accepted and ignored when they did occur, since they did no harm to anyone.  
  
“It’s not something that I imagine having to enforce often,” Elessar continued. “With the Elves, it’s easier to know whether they have done any such thing, as another Elf can feel if they… but that’s neither here nor there.”  
  
Faramir suppressed a sigh of relief that the king had stopped himself before explaining fully. There were things in the world that he didn’t need to know.   
  
He tried a few more lines of argument, but Elessar only looked harried, shrugged his shoulders, and muttered something about Elvish sensibilities. Faramir reluctantly gave up and made his exit, as he could think of nothing else to say.  
  
* * *  
  
By the time Faramir had left the presence of the king, it was already too late in the day to return home. This did not entirely dismay him; it would give him time to think of some way to change Elessar’s mind, or perhaps find out where some of the councilors stood on the matter. It would also give him time to think of a way to break the news to Boromir if he could not do anything. He made his way distractedly to his old chambers, let himself in, and sank heavily down onto the bed.   
  
“I take it that didn’t go well.”  
  
Faramir started, and turned to see Boromir’s ghost lazing casually next to him. “Nay, not particularly. But first, how did you… why are you…?”  
  
“Being dead has its advantages,” Boromir said, buffing his spectral fingernails on his spectral tunic.  
  
Faramir nodded contemplatively, and then went on to explain the situation.  
  
Boromir listened, frowning. “Should have guessed,” he muttered when Faramir fell silent. A few moments passed. “So what is your plan to change his mind?” Boromir asked.  
  
“I haven’t got one,” Faramir admitted. “Any ideas?”  
  
“Hm. I suppose it would do no good to remind him that Men are not Elves, or that Gondor got on fine without Elvish laws for quite a while?”  
  
Faramir shook his head. “I already mentioned that to him.”  
  
“And I suppose it wouldn’t help to remind him that Gondor got on fine without a _king_ for quite a while too?”  
  
Faramir swatted him—or rather, swatted the air—as he was not at all in the mood to have that argument again.  
  
Silence reigned. Faramir was lost in thought, but his brother’s ghost began grinning deviously. “Then it’s back to my plan.”  
  
“Which plan?” Faramir thought back to their earlier conversation, and very much wasn’t sure he wanted his dead brother dashing off full-tilt to incite revolution.  
  
“Not obeying,” Boromir said cheerfully. “Say… it’s been a while since I was in your old chambers. Lots of fond memories here. Like that time when you were seventeen, and I…”  
  
“Shh!” Faramir would have clapped a hand over his brother’s mouth if that had been possible anymore. As it was, he put as much ferociousness into his shushing as he could muster, and gave Boromir a piercing glare. He had been trying _not_ to call to his mind that occasion, or any of the countless others like it—to call those memories merely pleasant would be to understate them greatly.  
  
Boromir only laughed. “Little brother, you worry too much. He would not banish _you_ , of all people. And if he does happen to find out… well, what better reason could you give why this law is perhaps not such a fantastic idea?”  
  
Boromir’s ghost wafted stubbornly closer to him, and Faramir decided, after some consideration, that his plan was worth a try. He closed his eyes, and let himself feel the first shivers of a familiar touch…


	10. Startled

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some Boromir/Faramir

  
The eyes he knew so well were closed as they lay together. He touched the dark hair that ran in gentle waves over Faramir’s shoulders, his eyes taking in its faint sheen as his skin perceived its softness. _Slowly_ , he thought, _don’t hurry_. _Make it last_. The blankets were pushed down low, baring his brother’s lean-muscled chest, and he let his hand slide down to rest on Faramir’s hip. He edged closer bodily to feel his warmth, to place dozens of chaste kisses all across Faramir’s face—from brow to lips to the corners of his eyes—and felt Faramir sigh and return his kisses lazily, as if adrift on the edge of slumber.  
  
He let his arm rest where it was, across his brother’s belly. He didn’t want to move, to do anything to shatter the moment. He had learned to keep the shameful need out of his eyes and his actions, yet he had not been able to keep it from growing within him. It had grown of love, but it tormented him, lingering in his thoughts when they were apart and creeping into his mind when they were together. At nights sometimes it would surge, a prickling heat that twisted and coiled inside him, but one that he would not, _could_ not satisfy. He unwittingly cultivated his desire until it sweltered through him, undeniable.  
  
He pressed close to Faramir, inhaled his scent, and found himself making tiny sobbing noises while whispering his brother’s name. Faramir shifted in his embrace and snaked an arm around him, then leaned close and kissed him deeply, sharing his breath until Boromir found himself growing lightheaded. Then Faramir opened his eyes…  
  
“Boromir?”  
  
The elder brother nearly jumped, so startled was he.  
  
“Have you heard a word I’ve said?” Faramir said, smiling at him across the table.  
  
Boromir shook his head. “No, my thoughts were leagues away… forgive me,” he said, as lightly as he could. He did his best to pay attention to the rest of their conversation that evening.


	11. Each Moment, Without End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 50 moments from Boromir's life, each in a single sentence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for LJ comm 1characters, theme set delta.

01\. Blend  
He had always wondered just how it was that the City shone so brightly, newly white in the distance; when you stood in it, you could see the traces of old soot and dust that were ground into the stone, the marks of venerable history.  
  
02\. Stain  
Long ago he had overheard a laundress complaining of how hard it was to remove the stains of blood on soldier’s clothes, and he thought grimly of that as he picked at black flecks and sent them shivering away on the wind.  
  
03\. Island  
After the bridge came down most of the stones were swallowed by the River, but a few were piled high, appearing to his weary eyes as an island in the water, a dark silhouette reminiscent of old ruin…  
  
04\. Apple  
A summer apple could not rival those that came from the City’s stores in winter, he thought, for in the cold they were sweet, soft, wrinkled, and tasted of sunlight and warmth.   
  
05\. Paper  
The letter was worn, creased, and often-refolded, kept safe in his pocket—it bore his brother’s admonition that he be careful.  
  
06\. Relax  
The wine went untouched though his fingers clutched the cup until his knuckles were white: how could he relax, even here, with the riddle answered in such a way?  
  
07\. Leaves  
He could not deny that Ithilien was beautiful in the autumn, for the colors of the trees hid the drear shadow behind them.  
  
08\. Proof  
What good was speculation about whether it could be wielded, he wondered, when proof could be had with only a twitch of the finger?  
  
09\. Ugly  
It turned his stomach: Orcs had camped here, leaving behind trampled mud, ruined greenery, and filth, marring the fairness of his land.  
  
10\. Book  
He made his excuses and left Faramir alone in the archives as soon as he could—it was not that he disliked the books or the quiet, but merely that the dust made him sneeze.  
  
11\. Brood  
When the hobbits told him, at great length, about their Shire and all their relations (siblings, aunts, uncles, cousins, and on for as long as you cared to listen), he would find himself thinking back to his younger days, and wondering what it might have been like to grow up so: his world had been vast in comparison, yet somehow… so much smaller.   
  
12\. Mesh  
Blue and silver—colors of Dol Amroth—glinted in the sun as the fishers drew in the net; at the sight, he knew the sea his mother had so loved was in his blood also.  
  
13\. Soft  
Holding the end of the bracing bandage with his teeth, he secured it around his wrist, frowning—today’s lesson had apparently been that even practice swords are not soft.  
  
14\. Shelf  
It was useless to hide sweets on the high shelves, as everyone who dealt with the brothers learned quickly, for from Boromir’s shoulders, Faramir could see them… and reach them.  
  
15\. Alone  
It was several minutes before Aragorn’s footsteps rustled nearby, and in those minutes of terrible pain he was alone with dark thoughts and the distant sound of rushing water.  
  
16\. Fall  
His little brother’s cry brought him running, his scraped knee and sobs wrenched him into action, and he kissed the hurt until Faramir again smiled.  
  
17\. Knot  
When his mother perished, he had wept silently; a knot in his throat held back the wail that would have torn him in two.  
  
18\. Crowd  
There was something restful about the commotion of the City’s market, he thought; _give me a good bit of noise, and people everywhere, to remind me of what I forget out there._  
  
19\. Denial  
Even he could not have told you of what he thought as they floated down the Anduin, but his chewed fingertips might have given a guess.  
  
20\. Train   
Soft warm bread with butter—he spared only a moment to pity any army that fought too far from home to enjoy these simple comforts.  
  
21\. Fur  
The dwarf had called this mountain cruel, and that he well believed as the storm loosed about them—he pulled his fur-lined cloak tight around himself, hefted his bundled wood higher, and hoped the mountain would not prove crueler this night than the company could survive.  
  
22\. Chrome  
He had fallen in love immediately and fully: the gleam of the edge, the strength of the blade… and he dreamed of when it would be his.  
  
23\. Heart  
“As Minas Tirith is the heart of Gondor, he is the heart of the City,” he had once heard someone say of him; but, he thought, they had it quite backwards.  
  
24\. Intention  
He had never intended this, he thought as he stumbled among the trees, yet his intention mattered very little, and did not lessen his guilt.  
  
25\. Push  
When he led, his men found that they could believe in victory, and when his voice called to them in battle, they could not but answer.  
  
26\. Look  
Home at last after his first battle, he embellished the tale, drawing out the suspense and keeping silent on the parts that he himself shuddered to remember—though those seemed fewer now that Faramir was beside him, looking at him with awe.  
  
27\. Weight  
When he was young, he had known not why his father was so weary at day’s end, nor why the years seemed to sit so heavily upon him: not until he felt that weight himself did he truly understand.  
  
28\. Spider  
A shiver that made him think of cobwebs on his skin, and his pounding heart seemed to shake his whole frame as he pulled himself from the dream: now he knew what Faramir had meant; now he felt it also.  
  
29\. Robe  
With the serious air that he has adopted in imitation, he walks behind his father when the door is opened for them, and, peering from behind his robe, sees for the first time his baby brother in his mother’s arms.  
  
30\. Umbrella  
Under a low shrub in the gardens they hid from the rain and from their caretakers, who would certainly not be pleased to find the brothers, muddied but gleeful, making of the ground under the dripping leaves a whole land, the home and pride of their small toy soldiers.  
  
31\. Surface  
It was a memory out of time—his mother running her fingers through the seawater, smiling.  
  
32\. Idea   
He stepped forward when Denethor started to scold them both: “I’m sorry, Father—‘twas my idea.”  
  
33\. Diamond  
The gaze of the Lady of the Galadrim was cold, it seemed to him, and the touch of her thought was hard and sharp, a diamond with which to cut any lesser substance.  
  
34\. Blind  
Even before it was in sight, he had thought badly of passing through the blind dark of Moria, and now that they were near he liked it even less… but, of course, no one paid any heed to his objections.  
  
35\. Flow  
The River carried him, and he lay as if in sleep, lulled by the slow current and the sudden spring-scented breeze that ruffled his hair, on his last journey to the sea.  
  
36\. Movement  
A flicker of motion out of the corner of his eye prepared him for the sudden jolt, and he turned into it—Faramir’s ranger training may have made him stealthier, but not so much that he could give Boromir a brotherly tackle all unawares.  
  
37\. More  
Chided by his father’s answer, he frowned and looked away, but he had not asked out of pride; he had only wished to be more than he was.  
  
38\. Honey  
Few travelers came to Minas Tirith anymore, and he regretted this deeply when he met a lone Beorning in the crowded market, selling the most delicious honey-cakes he had ever tasted.  
  
39\. Weather  
The storm shifted and swelled over the land, clouds like rounded bellies sinking low, and he watched from the safety of his chambers, chin on folded arms, grateful for the respite of oncoming winter.  
  
40\. Blue  
Blue faded quickly to black in the wild, and he waited out the night as alone as he had ever been, weary, trying to remember that the same stars shone over Gondor.  
  
41\. Double  
The succession of blows bent him double, the unexpected pain, the blood that began to flow thick and hot, but though arrows fell in a hail he forced himself to stand again… to stand… one final time…   
  
42\. Braid  
Among the Rohirrim he rode, laughing or joining in their songs of glories and valor, his hair plaited, slapping against his back in the same rhythm—had it been flaxen or gold, he might have been mistaken for one of them.  
  
43\. Thread  
He walked down the hall lined with images of his ancestors, felt himself bound up in the thread of history: would someday some other Steward’s sons feel his eyes upon them?  
  
44\. Angles  
At his father’s council he listened as the others spoke, their purposes colliding and their words glancing off one another—he remembered an early and misguided attempt to cut clean through the haze, and smiled ruefully at the thought.   
  
45\. Daydream  
When he found the Ringbearer at last on the slopes of the hill, words and plans fell into place too easily: he’d had this dream before, and it only waited to become real.  
  
46\. Nightmare  
Though once he had felt differently, when Faramir sat there with tired, glassy eyes, his sleep disturbed again by _that dream_ , Boromir was glad that some small part of their family legacy had passed him by.  
  
47\. Honor  
This one had come to his company as a young man, green as spring leaves, and now left it only a few years later, seeming much older: his body would be returned to his family with honor, and Boromir would not forget his sacrifice—nor those of too many others like him.  
  
48\. Palm  
He put his hand on Pippin’s shoulder as the youngest hobbit walked beside him, talking of something pleasant and distant: he had grown very fond of him.  
  
49\. Screen  
His screening force of scouts had found them and drawn them, the might of his company had caught them, and their numbers had meant nothing; and amidst the glint of swords, his eyes gleamed with a thrill of joy.  
  
50\. Warmth  
“Our Boromir,” said Denethor, accepting the bundled infant from Finduilas; both smiled, he proudly, she joyfully, and that first moment of warmth was threaded throughout his young years.


	12. One Wet Boot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And incident during Boromir's travels with the Fellowship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just some silliness.

_Squish plod squish._  
  
That doesn’t even begin to cover the reality of the sounds his boot made as he walked on the cold stone. If there was a more annoying noise, he had, thankfully, never been subjected to it.   
  
_Squish plod squish._  
  
But there was nothing he could do about it. He had poured out all the remaining water when they stopped to unburden the pony, wrinkling his nose at the brownish-green color of it as it spilled onto the ground, and then cringing as he shoved his foot back into his boot, which was now not only still plenty wet, but also cold after the absence of his warm foot. He had no other pair of boots. He shouldn’t have needed any. His boots were fine leather, waterproof from the outside, and high enough for most of the puddles and streams he might have to cross on foot.  
  
 _Squish plod squish._  
  
Footing in this stream, though, had been treacherous indeed. It was a wonder none of them had fallen. Merry had nearly slipped, once, but fortunately he had been close enough to Pippin to catch his arm and save himself. Pippin had overcorrected and flung an arm out to his side to catch his own balance, but had instead caught Boromir in the stomach. The surprise of the unexpected blow had caused Boromir not to look where he stepped, and it happened to be the one spot they passed that was more than ankle-deep. _Splunk_ , and his leggings were soaked to the knee, and water flowed in over the top of his boot.   
  
_Squish plod squish._  
  
The fact that it had also soaked the bottom of his tunic and the end of his cloak mattered very little to him. His clothes, even the fur of his cloak, would dry more quickly than his boot would. His boot might be damp for days, and in the meantime it would chafe. Now, he could endure a lot of things without complaint or ill effect. He could go on short rations for as long as he had to. He could endure wounds that would incapacitate most men. He could brave the cold at the peaks of the White Mountains. There was very little in the way of discomfort that he could not tolerate. But wet boots were one hardship he would not endure _quietly_.   
  
_Squish plod squish._  
  
He might have tried to convince the others of the drastic need for a fire to dry his boot, but all their kindling had been left outside in the rush to get in, so that was not a possibility. He was sorely tempted to merely sit down where he was, and go into what his father called a “snit,” and just wait for his boot to dry before being persuaded to continue. He might have, except he didn’t particularly like the idea of being left behind, as he suspected he would be, in the utter darkness of Moria. Also, as his father always reminded him, it isn’t appropriate for Lords of Gondor to go into snits. So, there was nothing for it but to keep walking, or rather… _squish_ ing.  
  
 _Squish plod squish_.  
  
He would have been complaining, loudly, if the silence had not seemed a fragile thing that ought not to be shattered. Thus it came as a surprise when someone else broke it.  
  
“The stone is fairly smooth here. Why don’t you just take them both off? You’d be more comfortable that way,” said Merry, appearing beside him.  
  
“And we wouldn’t have to hear that _noise_ the whole time, worse than usual for the Big People,” said one of the other hobbits. It sounded like Sam, but whoever it was spoke in a whisper, and he couldn’t be sure. “Now I’m gladder than ever that I don’t wear any shoes. Squish squish squish for hours!” The voice continued until someone jabbed the speaker in the ribs.  
  
True. Painfully, annoyingly true, thought Boromir. But he had no tough soles and furry covering on his feet, and didn’t relish the idea of walking barefoot through these dark depths. He hadn’t wanted to be here in the first place. He didn’t want to be here barefoot. He certainly didn’t want to be here with one wet boot.  
  
 _Squish plod squish._  
  
It felt like he was getting a blister.  
  
 _Squish plod squish._  
  
Yes, definitely.  
  
 _Squish plod squish._  
  
Or maybe several.  
  
 _Squish plod squish._  
  
That does it, he thought. He was nearly ready to throw propriety to the wind and go into a snit, let them leave him behind, he did not care. He simply did not walk with wet boots, and most particularly not over long distances. That was his rule (and the exceptions he had made after swimming across the Anduin, and again at Tharbad, well, those were understandable lapses, weren’t they?) and he couldn’t keep quiet any longer. Fortunately that was the moment that they came to the choice of paths, and the guardroom, a halt and sleep. And a chance to be free of his boots.  
  
 _Squish-squish_ as he tugged at it until at last the boot released his foot, and he peeled off the soaked sock as well, and wiggled his toes in the chill air.  
  
If it was not dry by the time he woke, he resolved to find out if Aragorn, or Legolas, or even Mithrandir, shared his shoe-size.


	13. Very Unlike Him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Denethor speaks to his sons, acting very unlike himself, and the brothers wonder why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First appeared in The Noble Steward's Chronicles zine, vol. 4.

Both brothers jumped as the door was yanked open and Denethor came in, a flurry of black robes topped with an unreadable look. They sat back from the maps and reports that covered the table and gave their father their respectful attention.  
  
But something was amiss.  
  
Denethor flung out his arms wide, towards both of them.  
  
“My sons! Come, I must embrace you both and tell you how dearly I value you. I don’t think I have been doing that enough recently.”  
  
Boromir looked wide-eyed at Faramir, who was trying to keep his jaw from dropping. They shared a quick glance—what in Arda was this about?—before hesitantly standing. In an instant they found themselves being enthusiastically hugged together. Without releasing them, Denethor turned to Boromir.  
  
“I’m sorry I have put so much pressure on you to become a great soldier and to defend Gondor. It never occurred to me until today that you might have been under the impression that my fatherly love for you was conditional upon doing these things as well as you have. Do you need a holiday, maybe? Dol Amroth is lovely at this time of year…”  
  
Boromir started to reply that it was quite all right, that he was perfectly happy with his duties, and that his company was currently on leave or why else would he be in the City? But before he could get a word out, Denethor was speaking again, anxiously.  
  
“Oh dear! I’m sorry I mentioned that… My sons, I too am still reminded of her at every turn. The damage her loss must have done to you both, so young as you were, ai! Why have we never talked about this before?”  
  
Faramir saw Boromir blinking and completely flustered, and realized that if any reply would be given, it would have to come from him. He opened his mouth to say something about the reason for that being that, well, Denethor had never seemed too keen on talking about it, or about anything else regarding feelings, for that matter. Before he could say it, though, his father had turned to him and was looking at him with an expression of such deep regret and remorse that Faramir’s words dried up. Denethor drew back and regarded him solemnly, one hand still clasped to Faramir’s arm.  
  
“Faramir, I hope you can forgive me,” he said at last. Faramir now blinked and floundered for words. “No, say nothing! I have come to realize that I have unwittingly inflicted upon you the same hurt that I received when my own father showed more care for Thorongil than for me, and that I may have exacerbated this through disagreeing with you on so many occasions. Know that I did not intend this, and forgive, my dear son! I will endeavor to treat you more fairly in the future.”  
  
Faramir glanced at Boromir, who only shrugged and continued to look on in confusion.  
  
Denethor stood back and sighed contentedly, smiling at them both. “Well, then! I am pleased that we have had this conversation. You may go back to… whatever it was you were doing,” he said with an airy wave of his hand. Then he disappeared back out the door, again in a flurry of black robes.  
  
The brothers stood silently for a moment, stunned.  
  
“That was odd,” said Boromir. “Very unlike him.”  
  
Faramir nodded, still staring at the door.  
  
“But it was somewhat gratifying,” Boromir prodded.  
  
Faramir looked at his brother as if he had gone mad.  
  
“Well? Queen Berúthiel’s cats got your tongue? What do you think that was about?”  
  
Faramir shook his head sadly. “I think the daytime Palantír programs have finally gone to his head.”


End file.
